This is the TRUE story of ONE game from Toulouse 2002, featuring Adrenalin (Amateur-USA) vs. Backlash (Pro-UK)...I originally wrote it up for PGI but true to myself it's long-winded as hell and they'll never be able to publish it, so here it is for ya'lls reading pleasure, hehe...
By now you have either already read, or are unknowingly trudging your path towards reading Peter Robinson's account of the Paintball grudge match of the century. Now just to set the stage, this aforementioned match featured one team Backlash, captained by our hero Robbo the Rolo, against one team Adrenalin, captained on-field by lil' ole moi.
Hollywood climaxes are rarely written so beautifully. Here you've got two PGI authors...one, a flaming has-been, who spends all his time these days reminiscing on successes from long ago in an attempt to relive those times gone by and retain some level of credibility...to no avail. And then you've got me, a strapping young lad in the prime of his life, still developing his talents and abilities, although I've long since eclipsed the best that Pete ever had...and that drives him batty 'cause he knows it.
As you can imagine, the trash-talking potential between our two beings was quite severe leading up to the match itself, but now that it's over...you, the reader, deserves to know the whole truth of what REALLY happened on the field in that game...because if I don't tell you, Pete's sure as hell not gonna let you in on what happened. After all, that would be nothing short of galactically embarrassing for Mr. Ego, and he just ain't gonna have any of that. I imagine that at this moment, he's hard at work on some fictional make-believe attempt at salvaging himself while bashing me, and in all honesty that's fine and I don't mind...but it's not fair to the boys on my team or, in this case, to at least one of the boys on his. So I'm here to set the record straight. Read on...
First of all, WE took that game...MY team, Adrenalin, WON. Now naturally had the opposite happened and had Pete's team beaten us down, he'd be all too eager to describe to you the downfall of my unit and the endless reasons behind his team's (and, of course, HIS) great superiority. Of course, giant flocks of pink flamingos are far more likely to fly from my own arse than any team captained by Pete is likely to win over my own. The stars are set in the sky...this can neither be debated nor changed. But just as an insecure young child will justify his inadequacies to defend his sense of self-worth and being, Pete is likely to grasp at straws to change your focus from the ONLY important truth, which is that WE WON. he-he. However, in this case I am fortunate enough to have a hand on the very straw for which Pete is going to reach, and let me shed some light on it for your perusal.
The game was played on the Draxxus field, and at game's start my team broke out, as did his. I exited the starting station to take on a quick stint as a sweet-spotter, but as I'm shooting and walking towards my primary bunker I notice none other than His Supreme Majesty himself trying desperately to lane my players as they glide effortlessly towards their primary bunkers.
Now this sight by itself is plenty enough to tickle my giggle box. I mean here is Mr. Pete Robinson, the Duck-billed Platypus of the Paintball world, trying desperately yet fruitlessly to fill the niche of a sweet-spotter. Well in case you've never seen Peter play, let me just assure you that my guys were simply in no danger whatsoever. I wouldn't say he's a terrible shot, but I would say that a neon yellow Hippopotamus hiding behind a carrot ten feet in front of Mr. Robinson would be more than safe from our hero. It goes without saying, then, that all of my guys went in untouched. And from across the field I could see through Pete's eyes into his soul, and the phrase being uttered there...over, and over again: "I've fallen, and I can't get up!"
For the record, I'm a sentimental sort of fellow, and when I see an elderly person in distress, or a mentally challenged individual having a hard time with something, or a lump of useless flesh just taking up space, it stirs my being to the very soul. Imagine my reaction, then, to see all three of these things simultaneously presenting themselves in Mr. Robinson. You should have seen him there, stuck behind his Dorito, having not accomplished a thing in the world off the breakout and now faced with the terrible, overbearing question of "What do I do now???" I tell you, it brought a tear to my eye to see him in such a state, and I knew right then that I had to do something to help him.
The obviousness of the answer was like lightning in my brain. I could see him there, behind his Dorito, simply terrified...what he needed was a new focus. So I calmly raised my 'gun, aimed at his braincase, and pulled the trigger twice. Now let me inject at this point that I was not trying to eliminate Pete...to put him out of the game, I would have needed to hit something HARD, that a Paintball would actually break upon. In Pete's case, his skull does not qualify as such a surface...after all, it's a known fact within medical circles that steroids make your bones go spongy. All I was trying to do was get his attention, and ring his bell I did.
Those 'balls bounced off his head like marbles off a Sup'Air bunker, and it scared me at first because he started spinning behind his bunker like a dog chasing its own tail. Obviously, I had rung his bell a little too hard, and his ancient brain was left dazed and confused in the wake of such trauma. When he finally stopped making like a psychedelic merry-go-round, I could tell he was suffering...like a rabid dog who simply needs an outlet for the anger, a release from the pain of existence...he was mad. I could see it in his eyes from across the field, and as he finally turned and saw me standing there in the great wide open, my heart breathed a sigh of relief for I knew I had accomplished my task.
The difficult part about charity is balancing what you're giving with what you need to keep. Naturally, I didn't want to be eliminated from the game. All I wanted to do was give Pete a little nudge of guidance to help him find his way. As he pulled his 'gun up at me, I started to giggle yet again, for all the reasons I outlined earlier. And if it was simply a one-on-one it's likely I'd still be standing there getting shot AT. But the rest of Pete's team WAS all-too-capable of shooting me out, and I needed to seek cover from them. So as Pete's 'balls started missing me, I started trotting my way towards my primary bunker, with no great sense of urgency at all. But the one thing I didn't count on was the slippery worn down grass behind that far back standup, and though I made it TO the bunker with no problem whatsoever, when I tried to stop myself my feet came right out from under me, landing my ass on the ground, my face towards the sky, and my legs dangling out for Pete's two tapeline players to shoot. As I desperately scrambled to try and pull my legs behind cover, I felt a single hit on my inner left thigh, and I knew I'd been marked. You see, Pete's teammates CAN shoot...and I ran off the field eliminated.
The sad part about this, my friends, is that none of my own teammates were about to demonstrate to same level of goodwill to Pete that I had shown him. No, no, no...as far as they were concerned, he was just another target on the field...and as my remaining six guys surgically removed the rest of Backlash from the field, Pete was crouching, terrified, behind the very same bunker he'd started in. It was a pitiful sight, I assure you...to see a one-time-champion reduced to a pathetic, whimpering shadow of his former self...once again, I cried in pity. I prayed for the Marshalls to have mercy on him, and remove him from the game to save him from any further embarrassment...but alas, they were too professional, and they stood by and watched as our hero fell farther and farther into absolute confusion and panic. I could hear Pete screaming in terror from across the field...with every bounce he took, his attempts to convince the refs that the 'ball had actually broken fell on deaf ears. As the sounds from my teammates' markers came closer and closer, he began pleading with the refs to pull him before he was mugged. I even heard him cry out for "Mommy" a couple of times. I tell you, it was sad.
Finally, though, the inevitable occurred and Pete's hand went straight up into the air, as jubilantly and without hesitation as you would see from a schoolboy who knows the answer to his teacher's question. His elimination signaled, I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I, we, the grandstands, the spectators...all pretended not to notice as Pete exited the field in the wrong direction. Oh well.
Now the story could end here and that would be fine, but from Pete's perspective I can only assume that it occurred to him that he was about to leave the game with his tail tucked firmly between his legs...nothing to claim, no leg to stand on, and he needed something to cling to in order to bark that the game was not a total loss. So, no sooner did our teams converge to leave the field, and Pete quickly staked claim to my elimination.
Don't ask me how I did it, but I somehow managed to hold back the avalanche of laughter that rumbled in my stomach at the very mention that it was Pete who took me out. My first instinct was to slam him down with the fact that it wasn't, but that's when the charitable side of me took over...and I remembered that this was once a champion of Paintball, who needed, for his own sake, to be allowed to bow out gracefully. And I must also offer props to the Backlash player who was standing behind Pete at the time, the ONE Backlash player who absolutely, positively knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that Pete was DEFINITELY NOT the one who had eliminated me. He could have stepped in and set the record straight right then and there, but in that moment he showed the incredible maturity and self-control that comes from a true team player...I saw in his eyes that he knew the truth, and that at the same time he felt sorry for Pete's desperate need to salvage some measure of success in order not to perceive himself as a total failure. It didn't matter to me who eliminated me, and it didn't matter to that Backlash player either...but in the wake of their defeat, it mattered to Pete. And as Pete cheerily blurted out that it was worth it to lose that game just to be able to say he shot me out, the rest of his team must have sighed to themselves at the ridiculousness of such a statement. As was Morpheus in The Matrix, we are left with the obviousness of the truth.
Now, the game and the tournament are over. You are reading this article and we are back within our own lives. Pete has no doubt described to you in a diatribe of his own the details behind my elimination from that game, and as I have stated it really doesn't matter to me. You might ask, then, why I have even brought this up, and I must refer you back to the beginning of my article...where I state that that it's not for my own sake that I feel the need to set the record straight, but because it's not fair to the boys on my team or, in this case, to at least one of the boys on his, to allow Pete to publicly cloud the truth and change the focus of what's important.
And last but not least, do you ask where the charitable side of me has gone as I write this? Where is my goodwill towards Robbo now??? It's still here, in full...but because I know that Pete reads no articles except for his own, my account of the truth as I have written it here will never fall into his brain. So my conscience is clear, for I set the record straight although Pete will never know it. I can have the best of both worlds...all while allowing Pete to live in his, letting him think that he's brought the rest of us in too.
By now you have either already read, or are unknowingly trudging your path towards reading Peter Robinson's account of the Paintball grudge match of the century. Now just to set the stage, this aforementioned match featured one team Backlash, captained by our hero Robbo the Rolo, against one team Adrenalin, captained on-field by lil' ole moi.
Hollywood climaxes are rarely written so beautifully. Here you've got two PGI authors...one, a flaming has-been, who spends all his time these days reminiscing on successes from long ago in an attempt to relive those times gone by and retain some level of credibility...to no avail. And then you've got me, a strapping young lad in the prime of his life, still developing his talents and abilities, although I've long since eclipsed the best that Pete ever had...and that drives him batty 'cause he knows it.
As you can imagine, the trash-talking potential between our two beings was quite severe leading up to the match itself, but now that it's over...you, the reader, deserves to know the whole truth of what REALLY happened on the field in that game...because if I don't tell you, Pete's sure as hell not gonna let you in on what happened. After all, that would be nothing short of galactically embarrassing for Mr. Ego, and he just ain't gonna have any of that. I imagine that at this moment, he's hard at work on some fictional make-believe attempt at salvaging himself while bashing me, and in all honesty that's fine and I don't mind...but it's not fair to the boys on my team or, in this case, to at least one of the boys on his. So I'm here to set the record straight. Read on...
First of all, WE took that game...MY team, Adrenalin, WON. Now naturally had the opposite happened and had Pete's team beaten us down, he'd be all too eager to describe to you the downfall of my unit and the endless reasons behind his team's (and, of course, HIS) great superiority. Of course, giant flocks of pink flamingos are far more likely to fly from my own arse than any team captained by Pete is likely to win over my own. The stars are set in the sky...this can neither be debated nor changed. But just as an insecure young child will justify his inadequacies to defend his sense of self-worth and being, Pete is likely to grasp at straws to change your focus from the ONLY important truth, which is that WE WON. he-he. However, in this case I am fortunate enough to have a hand on the very straw for which Pete is going to reach, and let me shed some light on it for your perusal.
The game was played on the Draxxus field, and at game's start my team broke out, as did his. I exited the starting station to take on a quick stint as a sweet-spotter, but as I'm shooting and walking towards my primary bunker I notice none other than His Supreme Majesty himself trying desperately to lane my players as they glide effortlessly towards their primary bunkers.
Now this sight by itself is plenty enough to tickle my giggle box. I mean here is Mr. Pete Robinson, the Duck-billed Platypus of the Paintball world, trying desperately yet fruitlessly to fill the niche of a sweet-spotter. Well in case you've never seen Peter play, let me just assure you that my guys were simply in no danger whatsoever. I wouldn't say he's a terrible shot, but I would say that a neon yellow Hippopotamus hiding behind a carrot ten feet in front of Mr. Robinson would be more than safe from our hero. It goes without saying, then, that all of my guys went in untouched. And from across the field I could see through Pete's eyes into his soul, and the phrase being uttered there...over, and over again: "I've fallen, and I can't get up!"
For the record, I'm a sentimental sort of fellow, and when I see an elderly person in distress, or a mentally challenged individual having a hard time with something, or a lump of useless flesh just taking up space, it stirs my being to the very soul. Imagine my reaction, then, to see all three of these things simultaneously presenting themselves in Mr. Robinson. You should have seen him there, stuck behind his Dorito, having not accomplished a thing in the world off the breakout and now faced with the terrible, overbearing question of "What do I do now???" I tell you, it brought a tear to my eye to see him in such a state, and I knew right then that I had to do something to help him.
The obviousness of the answer was like lightning in my brain. I could see him there, behind his Dorito, simply terrified...what he needed was a new focus. So I calmly raised my 'gun, aimed at his braincase, and pulled the trigger twice. Now let me inject at this point that I was not trying to eliminate Pete...to put him out of the game, I would have needed to hit something HARD, that a Paintball would actually break upon. In Pete's case, his skull does not qualify as such a surface...after all, it's a known fact within medical circles that steroids make your bones go spongy. All I was trying to do was get his attention, and ring his bell I did.
Those 'balls bounced off his head like marbles off a Sup'Air bunker, and it scared me at first because he started spinning behind his bunker like a dog chasing its own tail. Obviously, I had rung his bell a little too hard, and his ancient brain was left dazed and confused in the wake of such trauma. When he finally stopped making like a psychedelic merry-go-round, I could tell he was suffering...like a rabid dog who simply needs an outlet for the anger, a release from the pain of existence...he was mad. I could see it in his eyes from across the field, and as he finally turned and saw me standing there in the great wide open, my heart breathed a sigh of relief for I knew I had accomplished my task.
The difficult part about charity is balancing what you're giving with what you need to keep. Naturally, I didn't want to be eliminated from the game. All I wanted to do was give Pete a little nudge of guidance to help him find his way. As he pulled his 'gun up at me, I started to giggle yet again, for all the reasons I outlined earlier. And if it was simply a one-on-one it's likely I'd still be standing there getting shot AT. But the rest of Pete's team WAS all-too-capable of shooting me out, and I needed to seek cover from them. So as Pete's 'balls started missing me, I started trotting my way towards my primary bunker, with no great sense of urgency at all. But the one thing I didn't count on was the slippery worn down grass behind that far back standup, and though I made it TO the bunker with no problem whatsoever, when I tried to stop myself my feet came right out from under me, landing my ass on the ground, my face towards the sky, and my legs dangling out for Pete's two tapeline players to shoot. As I desperately scrambled to try and pull my legs behind cover, I felt a single hit on my inner left thigh, and I knew I'd been marked. You see, Pete's teammates CAN shoot...and I ran off the field eliminated.
The sad part about this, my friends, is that none of my own teammates were about to demonstrate to same level of goodwill to Pete that I had shown him. No, no, no...as far as they were concerned, he was just another target on the field...and as my remaining six guys surgically removed the rest of Backlash from the field, Pete was crouching, terrified, behind the very same bunker he'd started in. It was a pitiful sight, I assure you...to see a one-time-champion reduced to a pathetic, whimpering shadow of his former self...once again, I cried in pity. I prayed for the Marshalls to have mercy on him, and remove him from the game to save him from any further embarrassment...but alas, they were too professional, and they stood by and watched as our hero fell farther and farther into absolute confusion and panic. I could hear Pete screaming in terror from across the field...with every bounce he took, his attempts to convince the refs that the 'ball had actually broken fell on deaf ears. As the sounds from my teammates' markers came closer and closer, he began pleading with the refs to pull him before he was mugged. I even heard him cry out for "Mommy" a couple of times. I tell you, it was sad.
Finally, though, the inevitable occurred and Pete's hand went straight up into the air, as jubilantly and without hesitation as you would see from a schoolboy who knows the answer to his teacher's question. His elimination signaled, I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I, we, the grandstands, the spectators...all pretended not to notice as Pete exited the field in the wrong direction. Oh well.
Now the story could end here and that would be fine, but from Pete's perspective I can only assume that it occurred to him that he was about to leave the game with his tail tucked firmly between his legs...nothing to claim, no leg to stand on, and he needed something to cling to in order to bark that the game was not a total loss. So, no sooner did our teams converge to leave the field, and Pete quickly staked claim to my elimination.
Don't ask me how I did it, but I somehow managed to hold back the avalanche of laughter that rumbled in my stomach at the very mention that it was Pete who took me out. My first instinct was to slam him down with the fact that it wasn't, but that's when the charitable side of me took over...and I remembered that this was once a champion of Paintball, who needed, for his own sake, to be allowed to bow out gracefully. And I must also offer props to the Backlash player who was standing behind Pete at the time, the ONE Backlash player who absolutely, positively knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that Pete was DEFINITELY NOT the one who had eliminated me. He could have stepped in and set the record straight right then and there, but in that moment he showed the incredible maturity and self-control that comes from a true team player...I saw in his eyes that he knew the truth, and that at the same time he felt sorry for Pete's desperate need to salvage some measure of success in order not to perceive himself as a total failure. It didn't matter to me who eliminated me, and it didn't matter to that Backlash player either...but in the wake of their defeat, it mattered to Pete. And as Pete cheerily blurted out that it was worth it to lose that game just to be able to say he shot me out, the rest of his team must have sighed to themselves at the ridiculousness of such a statement. As was Morpheus in The Matrix, we are left with the obviousness of the truth.
Now, the game and the tournament are over. You are reading this article and we are back within our own lives. Pete has no doubt described to you in a diatribe of his own the details behind my elimination from that game, and as I have stated it really doesn't matter to me. You might ask, then, why I have even brought this up, and I must refer you back to the beginning of my article...where I state that that it's not for my own sake that I feel the need to set the record straight, but because it's not fair to the boys on my team or, in this case, to at least one of the boys on his, to allow Pete to publicly cloud the truth and change the focus of what's important.
And last but not least, do you ask where the charitable side of me has gone as I write this? Where is my goodwill towards Robbo now??? It's still here, in full...but because I know that Pete reads no articles except for his own, my account of the truth as I have written it here will never fall into his brain. So my conscience is clear, for I set the record straight although Pete will never know it. I can have the best of both worlds...all while allowing Pete to live in his, letting him think that he's brought the rest of us in too.
